


Return To Sender

by stiylesstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles Stilinski, Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Grumpy Derek, Minnesota, Mutual Pining, POV Derek, Pining, Seattle, Stiles Stilinski Has a Boyfriend, Werewolves, sterek, yes this is a penpal fic ur welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28280562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiylesstilinski/pseuds/stiylesstilinski
Summary: When Derek receives a postcard shortly after moving to a new city where no one is supposed to know him, he doesn't believe fate would fuck with him like this. The postcard's return address glares back at him: Stiles Stilinski.Stiles knew something was off when he received two postcards instead of one: one from his beloved penpal, Alfie, who announced he had moved to sunny and warm Miami and another, also signed "Alfred," from his penpal's previous address with a strangely familiar cold tone. Stiles isn't sure what to expect when he responds to both the real Alfred and the person committing identity theft.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	1. Postcard Pining

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! 
> 
> This is my first ever fic, hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> There's more chapters to come. 
> 
> Liv xx

The universe had a sick sense of humor when it came to fucking up Derek Hale’s life. It was like clockwork, whenever life seemed to be settling down and the spark of new possibilities eased the crease in his brow, Derek was always knocked back to reality by a curveball. However, this intrusion felt familiar. Derek had experience dealing with the interruption of a certain smart-mouthed, gangly nuisance for seven years.

Despite this familiarity, Derek looked at the postcard, adorned with evergreen trees and the silhouette of Mt. Baker, in disbelief. The name on the return address glared back at him: Stiles Stilinski.

Two months ago, Derek made the sudden decision to leave Beacon Hills for a new start – well a colder start. No one in what Derek now coined his “old life” knew where he had moved and he hoped the last place anyone would look was St. Paul, Minnesota. Derek tried to assure himself he wasn’t certain what prompted the impulse to move so far away, but it was clear as day: he needed a new beginning in a place where no one would know him and everyone greeted him with a smile and that signature midwestern charm that made him feel like he belonged — like he wasn’t some orphaned, blood-thirsty werewolf criminal.

He was anything but a criminal to the few locals he encountered on a regular basis. He volunteered part-time at the public library and spent the rest of his time pouring over baking recipes — refusing to move on until he had perfected at least three batches of his biweekly sweet endeavor — , devouring novels anyone within earshot recommended, and working part-time as a mail delivery man. The irony of the mail mishap was not lost on him.

St. Paul was a nice sized city with unique neighborhoods, cute cafes, and quiet bookstores. No one was rifling through Derek’s business and there were enough universities in the area that he could blend in with the crowd. He liked the cold, even if he had to upgrade his beloved and weathered leather jacket for a winter-appropriate alternative. He looked forward to having actual seasons, not just slight temperature changes between fall and winter.

He thought he was probably the only human on earth to enjoy Minnesota weather over California’s, that is why Derek thought he was safe from the inevitable havoc Beacon Hills’ finest residents would bring into his life if they reconnected with him.

And to an extent, Derek was correct about no one finding him. Stiles hadn’t exactly found him. The postcard was addressed to the apartment Derek had recently moved into. However, it wasn’t addressed to him, but to whom Derek assumed was the tenet who lived there before him: a man named Alfred Alexander.

This had to be some joke. There was no way a coincidence like this could occur.

Derek’s eyes slowly traveled over the letter in Stiles’ chicken scratch handwriting. He knew he probably shouldn’t read the personal note, but curiosity got the best of him. It wasn’t technically a felony if the mail wasn’t sealed, right?

The postcard confirmed where he had heard Stiles was living, and by “heard” he absolutely did not mean what he discovered from obsessing over Stiles’ Facebook profile. The “Hiya from Seattle!” matched his blurry pictures taken at house parties, his arm around one of his University of Washington classmates. Although he knew it was ridiculous, Derek refused to believe Stiles had friends outside of Beacon Hills, so each person in his pictures was a “classmate” to Derek.

Even the tall, dangerously handsome, curly-haired “classmate” Stiles had his lips attached to in his profile picture. Even though Stiles’ profile informed the whole world he was in a relationship. As much as Derek tried to shove down the insults he wanted to hurl at the man with his arms secured around Stiles, as much as Derek attempted to shut off the part of his brain that always knew his constant banter with Stiles was something else entirely, Derek found it impossible to ignore how much he dearly missed Stiles when he registered the all too familiar tone the letter carried.

_Hiya from Seattle!_

_I’m so so so so so so deeply, sincerely sorry I haven’t written in a few months. Senior year is kicking my ass and I wanted to write this knowing you had my full and undivided attention._

_How’s the bitter, morbid Midwest? Snow or ice yet? Since it's almost November I’d assume you’ve at least had a dusting. Remind me again why on earth you retired in MINNESOTA of all places? I would peg you for a Miami kinda guy, maybe you should look into spending the winter there._

_Like I said, senior year has been a shit-show, but I’m happy for once. I’ve got a great boyfriend, great friends (both here & in Beacon Hills), therapy is helping and my nightmares have stopped (of course it helps to be consistently sleeping next to someone instead of alone). _

_I’ll graduate in June and it would mean the world to me if you could be there for it or I could make the sacrifice of flying to Minnesota. I could even make a road trip out of it, hit a bunch of different states on the way. I’ve always wanted to go to Montana._

_I hope you are taking care of yourself. Your hiking trip through Canada sounded AMAZING, but remember to take it easy, you’ve still got a lot of life to live._

_Now that coursework has slowed down and I’ve gotten into the rhythm of the school year, I won’t let you down again and promise to keep up with weekly postcards, even if you have much more interesting stories than I do._

_How’s it going with your neighbor ;) ? Even though I said you’ve got a lot of life to live, life is still short._

_Always love hearing from you, Alfred._

_Stiles_

Derek dropped the postcard like it had scorched his skin. He never knew an inanimate object could make him feel something so strong, so overwhelming. He felt Stiles’ words, that were oh so uniquely Stiles, wash over him like a tsunami of emotion.

He wanted to hit his head against the wall just to rid his brain of the phrase it kept mulling over: _it helps to be consistently sleeping next to someone instead of alone._

 _No. No. No. No. No. No. No._ He demanded of his brain that was short-circuiting.

It’s not like Derek could hold it against Stiles or even blame him for the betrayal he felt, Derek had spent drunken nights with far more people than he would like to admit in the past four years. But it was never real; it was always an escape route. A way to rid Derek’s brain of the constant anxiety of lusting after a scrawny freak who was seven years younger than him. That and the fact that Derek was almost 30, no spouse, no real long-term relationship experience, and hopefully no kids.

When Derek closed his eyes, he swore he could picture Stiles writing the letter. His lanky body hunched over a desk in the library — one old enough he’d have to squint to unveil the original wood beneath the layers of scribbled obscenities — as his hands moved quicker than his darting eyes could keep up with. His brain though, that could always keep up. Sharp as a knife and deadly when paired with his tongue, striking anyone within reach with its whiplash.

If Derek thought hard enough, he could imagine how the dim overhead lights and cave-like ambiance of the floor to ceiling bookshelves cast a shadow over Stiles’ mole-freckled face. His jaw would be sharp and brow furrowed in concentration, mouth slightly agape. That signature Stilinski smirk would take over his face when he wrote a particularly witty phrase. When Stiles was around Derek, that smirk was always paired with a certain glint in his eyes, as if to say “I dare you to say it. I dare you to act on it. I dare you to spill the secret we both refuse to acknowledge.”

Derek had never allowed himself to register those feelings while in Beacon Hills. His mind over analyzed all the ways it could end — in the back of Sheriff Stilinski’s squad car after defiling his teenage son or sans the defiling part because Stiles (or Scott) would kill Derek himself. Although, Stiles tended to wear his heart on his sleeve, so the former seemed to be more likely.

For someone who thought through each decision with meticulous risk analysis, Derek didn’t stop to think about his next action. Stiles tended to do that to him: stop Derek’s train of over-thinking, along with his pulse.

“I’m so utterly fucked,” he muttered as he opened the box of postcards in his nightstand drawer strictly reserved for assuring Cora he was alive.

*****

A few days later, Stiles was thrilled to see a familiar stamp advertising different national parks peeking out of his apartment mailbox and then confused when he received not his expected one, but two postcards in the mail. While both return addresses announced the postcards were from Alfred, it was immediately clear which one was the imposter. The retiree, who Stiles had become fond of, always concluded his postcards with “Cheers, Alfie.” The second postcard was signed with a cold and bland “Alfred Alexander.” Whoever was attempting to commit identity theft was rather shit at it, Stiles thought.

It didn’t take a genius to find the new name the address housed, just a quick search on the Ramsey County Assessor’s website. Stiles doubled over in laughter — and utter shock — when he saw who lived in Alfred’s old dwellings: Derek Fucking Hale.

Stiles was so busy gawking at the irony of it all that it took him a moment to

a. Analyze all the reasons why on earth Derek Hale of all people — privately referred to as Derek _Stiles-Loathing_ Hale — would respond to him pretending to be Alfred

b. Realize all the mind games he could play with Derek and how far he could push his boundaries

c. Repress the utterly inappropriate feeling of his pants tightening at Derek wanting to respond to Stiles so badly that he was pretending to be an 82-year-old man. God, Stiles thought, he must be stuck in a Jane Austen novel if a postcard turned him on.

The postcard’s contents weren’t even remotely sexy, quite boring to Stiles’ dismay. But that didn’t matter because the implication of the postcard — the man and meaning behind Derek sending it to Stiles — was anything but boring.

Stiles hastily rubbed his arms, begging the goosebumps to recede. Next he zeroed in on the distinctly familiar affection the letter filled him with and folded those feelings, like origami paper, into smaller and smaller squares, until all he had left was a speck of emotion for Derek. He neatly filed that sliver of hope, long understood to be unrequited, into the “unthinkables” cabinet in his brain.

This was neither a difficult nor new action. Stiles had spent a large portion of high school drooling over and bickering with Derek — his hard exterior of dark scruff and calculating eyes paired with soft sweaters and the rare toothy smile was impossible to ignore, but he could be an asshole — and quickly realized his chances were less than slim.

After Derek disappeared in a fashion that screamed “don’t you dare try and find me, Stiles,” he resolved that Derek now lived in his past memories and there wasn’t likely to be a future where Derek’s grumpy face would distract Stiles.

After high school, Stiles moved to Seattle where he found a place to study both his interests: English (an emphasis in folklore and mythical studies) and Computer Science. Stiles immediately recognized the University of Washington was too big for him, too metropolitan, but isn’t that what he wanted? He spent all of high school daydreaming of bustling cities and a huge campus where he could walk past fifty students and not be recognized.

Stiles had always felt like a footnote in the pack. The comedic relief, the one who couldn’t actually help. The one who always needed to be saved. He needed to figure out who he was in a city where no one knew him. He needed to not be a liability.

While it was clear Derek was writing as if he were some aloof elderly man and not the warm-hearted, crocheting free spirit Alfie had always been, there was an air of familiarity about the distant tone and gruff edge of his word choice.

Stiles pursed his lips, deep in thought, while pouring over Derek’s razor-sharp formality.

_Stiles,_

_It is good to hear from you. I’m pleased to hear you are well._

_While you joke about the weather, I find It comforting: a blanket of fresh powder blurring the harsh lines of telephone wires, potholes, and yellow-spotted yards. As much as you insist, Miami is much too stifling for me._

_I’ll consider your other advice._

_Alfred Alexander_

It was almost laughable, really. His bland tone, lack of exclamation, and overall failure to encapsulate Alfie was horrendous. Alfred always asked about Leo, Stiles’ boyfriend, and would never assume the rigid formality that Derek’s letter spread over Stiles with unease.

Derek’s postcard, while uniquely Derek, was far from Alfie’s welcoming postcards: bright pinks and oranges reflected in an endless turquoise sea; beach goers soaking up the last of the Hawaiian sun before dusk.

Derek’s postcard could only be described as bleak, yet fitting. A raven-coated wolf was at its center, stationary in the cyclone of white snow surrounding it.

Stiles wished he could peer over Derek’s broad shoulders while he wrote those lines.

He wondered if the apartment was decorated in the same way Alfie had vividly described it. Stiles then realized his idiocy. Derek’s interior design taste was far removed from Alfie’s love of lilac touches – pillows, throw blankets, and planters as he had told Stiles – and original artwork covering each inch of wall space.

Stiles imagined Derek’s decorating exactly the way he presented himself: dark, rough, and unwelcoming. Stiles’ mind settled on a color pallet of gray hues and minimal blood red. Now that he thought about it, Derek’s letter carried those same shades of gray that mirrored his exterior – cold.

The only portion that felt as if Derek had written the card was his poetic illustration of the Minnesota weather. Derek always did like reading classics and he chose his words with great certainty – Stiles often undertook the challenge of decoding Derek’s guarded, mysterious responses. It was as if his words took on a surface level meaning when delivered to the pack, yet a deeper meaning strictly for Stiles to uncover.

Stiles waited for the words to unravel themselves before him, until he concluded maybe the hidden meaning was in the action of Derek sending the letter.


	2. Distance makes the heart grow fonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for all the kudos! 
> 
> A few things about this chapter: 
> 
> \- kinda short and not very eventful so sorry in advance  
> \- just finished "The Song of Achilles" and I was in such emotional distress that I had to mention it 
> 
> Are ya'll interested in me including Alfie's letters as well? Let me know! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy + happy new year 
> 
> Liv xx

Derek spent the rest of the week busying himself with work, yet he still couldn’t shake the weight that knotted in his stomach. His chest would constrict as if he had heartburn. If he failed to shut down the repetitive thoughts about what he had written, the burn would rise to his throat. He quickly swallowed the bile-like taste.

_Was it guilt? Was it anxiety? Was it hope?_

He attempted to resolve this issue by scheduling out his time cautiously.

8 a.m. - wake up

8:05 - 9:05 a.m. - go for a run and lift some flimsy weights

9:06 - 9:26 a.m. - take a steaming shower and listen to loud music to stop self from overthinking

9:30 - 10:30 a.m. - get dressed for the day (the turn of the seasons demanded a wool sweater, corduroys, and thick socks) and make breakfast (typically eggs from the farmers’ market, homemade seedy toast, and bacon)

10:31 - 10:40 a.m. - brush teeth, grab keys and wallet, and head out for the day

11:00 a.m. - 2 p.m.. - arrive at the library, sort through returns, sit behind the information desk eager to answer questions or gush about recommendations

2:05 p.m. - grab soup and a sandwich from the overpriced natural foods store next door

2:30 p.m. - slip into the trance of a mellow classics playlist, start mail rounds, and do not linger on any postcards, letters, envelopes with drawings, or return addresses from the state of Washington

6:30 p.m. - arrive at home, check mail *cue disappointment*, and make dinner

7:30 - 9 p.m. - shut off brain by reading

9:01 p.m. - pick out a movie from the DVD collection

11 p.m. - get ready for bed

The schedule was running smoothly, up until 8:05 a.m. when Derek saw a tall, chestnut-haired teenager who had a buzzcut. The sight made Derek think of the first time he met Stiles, trespassing on the Hale property. At that time, he was unsure of himself and looked slightly awkward with minimal muscle development.

Of course, then Derek spiraled the remainder of his run: Stiles was still awkward, less now in his body — which based on pictures he had filled into his lanky physique — but rather his aurora was one of awkwardness.

The buzzcut caused Derek’s discipline to further deteriorate. He never minded the buzzcut, but Stiles' longer hair — stuck up every which way as if a force was tugging it north, then another piece south, the whole left side too far west, and the right reaching toward the east — suited him.

Maybe Derek only thought that because it fueled fantasies in his head. If he had known better, he would have thought Stiles just had a marathon sex fest.

At 9:06, Derek scrubbed at his scalp and allowed the scalding water to wipe away any thoughts of teenage buzzcuts or wild sex hair. Of course, trying to suppress those thoughts only encouraged them to overtake any other pressing matters on Derek’s mind.

He was left beginning his day unsuccessfully: thinking about Stiles in the shower.

-

Stepping into the library he felt a sense of relief consume him, finally he could focus on something other than Stiles. However, Derek’s attention on stacking returned books was rudely interrupted when a freckled face ginger who regularly shamelessly flirted with Derek asked him where he could find _The Song of Achilles_. After searching the book in the library’s system and directing the man to the “M” section of fiction, he seemed to be more interested in the opportunity to have Derek’s attention than look for the novel.

“Have you read it?” the man, who Derek guessed couldn’t be older than twenty-one, asked with a splotchy blush crawling across his freckled face.

“No, I’m not one for mythology,” Derek said matter-of-factly. It was true after all, mythology often painted a vilified image of werewolves which made his skin crawl. The last thing he needed was to feel even more self-hatred.

Unfortunately, the poor guy couldn’t take a hint.

“Well, you know, it’s not just about greek mythology, it’s a gay romance,” the man paused, daring a glance toward Derek before he continued. “I don’t know if you’d be interested in that …”

Now it was Derek’s turn to blush. He suddenly became mesmerized by the stack of returns balancing in his left hand.

“Uh, um, I’ve got to get back to work,” he gestured in a vague direction. “I’m sure Dorothy up front will check that out for you.”

Derek turned and didn’t dare glance back to see the confused, and slightly disappointed, look on the fool’s face.

-

At the end of Derek’s shift — just as he grabbed his coat and bid farewell to the older women who he worked with — Derek took a detour.

He passed through the fiction section, which was luckily just slightly out of his way, and without hesitating shoved a copy of the novel into his tote bag.

The rest of the day went by smoothly, without his mind drifting to different tasks, different states, or a different person.

After his postal shift and dinner, Derek allowed himself to open the book he had pushed to the back of his mind since leaving the library.

He couldn’t help but find remnants of Stiles stuck between the pages. He lingered over certain passages, thinking about what it would mean to say such words aloud to another man. To proclaim long-overdue affection to a certain man on his mind.

Instead of thinking too hard about wishful words and improbable scenarios, he read and read, checked his mailbox, and read.

-

The next morning, fully prepared to continue his disciplined schedule, Derek caught a glimpse of a postcard in his mailbox. In a split second, he threw away all plans for his morning run and settled on admiring the clearly hand-drawn postcard instead.

By clearly hand-drawn, he meant that the strange lop-sided image of a stick-figure Stiles conquering a mountain was both horrendous and smudged.

Although lacking in artistic talent, Derek couldn’t keep the smile that tugged at each corner of his mouth at bay. It typically took a lot for Derek to display those pearly whites, but obviously a mere stroke of Stiles’ pen could reveal those sharp canines Derek was self-conscious of.

Derek’s smile faltered when he flipped over the postcard.

_Alfred,_

_You seem different, is everything okay?_

_Your bright and cheery self is strangely grumpy._

_I used to know a guy like that, always grumpy, and I ended up nicknaming him sourwolf behind his back. Should I now address my letters that way to you?_

_I was also surprised by your lack of questions in your last letter, typically you are quite the investigator. But everyone has off days._

_I will answer the questions you typically ask anyway:_

_1\. Leo and I are okay, although both constantly tired and stressed and, therefore, fight any chance we get. But the make-up sex is worth it, eh? Must be past the honeymoon stage._

_2\. I am making progress on grad school applications, thanks for asking ;) A pain, they really are, but it’s keeping me busy._

_3\. Work is great as always, I’m training a few new baristas so I’ll have more helping hands around the café._

_I just received a postcard from another friend of mine who moved to Miami last week, hah! I told you it would be a great place to retire._

_Sorry this is so short, but I’m swamped. Hopefully you will sound more like yourself in your next postcard._

_Stiles_

_P.S. we should facetime sometime soon, it’s been a while!_

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 _Stiles knows_ , thought Derek. _He knows because of how formal the note was, he’s playing with me by hinting at the “sourwolf” nickname; the facetime suggestion was the cherry on top._

Derek didn’t know why he tried to fool a sheriff’s son who always had a knack for spotting a lie miles away.

*****

Unlike Derek, Stiles was too preoccupied with course work, grad school applications, the café, and Leo to worry about how soon the mailman would reach his block.

Entering the first week of November meant hope for a short breather during Thanksgiving and the sweet relief of winter break approaching just over the horizon. Stiles just needed to wrap up his most difficult quarter yet and survive final exams before he could go 24 hours without thinking about his to-do list.

Until then, Friday nights out would have to suffice as a break from everyday life. Stiles found himself on the first Friday of November in search of a wedge of lime or sip of juice to chase the acrid taste Leo’s cheap tequila left on Stiles’ tongue.

Maybe taking on the challenge to down three shots of the putrid substance on top of a few mixed drinks wasn’t the best choice.

But as Stiles’ limbs began to loosen and his mind drifted to the group of people dancing freely in the center of the living room, he couldn’t make himself regret coming to the house party.

Wobbling up to a standing position, Stiles mocked a bow with his hand stretched out towards Leo who was comically smiling at Stiles.

“Care to join me for a dance, sir?” Stiles barely said coherently through giggles.

“Oh why, what an honor it would be,” Leo responded as he allowed Stiles to pull him up and drape an arm around his hips.

Swaying side to side, Stiles looked up at the man a head taller than Stiles. He’d told him how tall he was once after Stiles yelled at him for calling him small, but he couldn’t recall if it was 6’3 or 6’4.

Stiles felt bad about not knowing a lot about Leo’s family, hometown, and friends back home. But, if Stiles asked then Leo would ask about Beacon Hills. Stiles couldn’t bear to lie to that face.

He was too good for Stiles. _Too pure. Too unaware of the real dangers in the world. Too oblivious to all the things I’ve seen; what I’ve done, Stiles thought._

Stiles often wondered what kind of world record Leo would break after sprinting away from him if he ever mentioned the true dynamic of the pack. He sometimes slipped up and called it the pack instead of his high school friend group.

 _Too pure_ , Stiles thought again while memorizing the way Leo’s emerald eyes stood out against his toffee-like complexion. _Might as well memorize it now before you lose him._

Leo, oblivious to Stiles’ burning internal dilemma, tucked a loose curl behind his ear and leaned down to Stiles’ height.

"Wanna go back to yours?”

-

They looked like a pair of fools — Stiles stumbling up the stairs, both from the effects of a long night of drinking and the pull of Leo impatiently ushering Stiles in his desired destination: the bedroom.

As promises of exactly what he would do to Leo once they walked through the door spilled from his tongue, Stiles noticed the sliver of a wolf’s tail amid a blizzard.

Stiles drunkenly stared at the curve of the creature’s tail until the giggles emitting from the hot mouth pressed against his neck shook him back to reality. Stiles plucked the postcard from the mailbox and attempted to read its contents, but the words seemed to blur together and his head throbbed from trying to make sense of the jumble of sentences Derek’s hand had scrawled amid the pleas of Leo.

“I want you this second! There’s no time to open mail, it’s Stiles and Leo time,” Leo insisted by tugging him into the bedroom.

The postcard fell from Stiles’ white-knuckled grip onto the blue shag rug. With one last glance back at the lonesome postcard in the center of the living room, Stiles gave into the man who was stripping out of his t-shirt.

A man right in front of him, not across the country, who wanted him back.

-

After Leo had fallen asleep, tired from the night’s festivities, Stiles silently pulled back the sheets covering half of his bare body and attempted to tiptoe — unsuccessfully when he tripped over Leo’s hastily discarded sneakers — into the living room.

He picked up the letter and took a moment to scrutinize the wolf. Its black eyes stared into him and caused unease to creep up Stiles’ spine. Goosebumps began to overtake him as he remembered the last time he saw Derek: a black wolf walking into the distance.

Turning the rectangular card stock over in his shaking hands, his eyes roamed Derek’s words: more Derek-like this time, but still stiff.

Stiles couldn’t help but feel exposed as if Derek’s writing created a portal where he could see Stiles’ reaction to the letter in real-time. Stiles imagined he could see through the piece of paper resting on his palms and see Derek looking back at him, like a double-sided mirror.

Sitting back, naked on the worn sofa, Stiles envisioned Derek’s horror at his shameless display of himself. He silently dared Derek to peer through, dissecting each part of Stiles’ body: his gaze tracing the unseemingly muscular landscape of Stiles’ chest, counting each mole as if mapping constellations, and lower and lower and lower until he reached —

“Why’d you leave the bed?” Leo pouted, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “God, can you really not leave the mail until tomorrow morning? Come back to bed, it’s cold.”

Immediately, guilt flooded Stiles. How could he be thinking about Derek’s possible voyeuristic tendencies just mere hours after fucking someone else?

 _Someone else? Someone else? You mean your boyfriend?_ His mind wouldn’t shut up.


End file.
